Tugs
by Felandris09
Summary: Cullen lends a hand.


The mid-day sun's glare is making him squint. His fingertips follow the touch of air along his chest where his shirt is pulled up.

Cullen can't quite believe his own eagerness. It's left him up in his old loft-turned-storage chamber, on the bed that still creaks. Before he could even lie down he had to wipe off a thick layer of dust. And he can't figure out how he was ever able to sleep up her with this amount of draft coming in. Not that he's letting either of those things stop him now.

The Inquisitor left mere hours ago, but already every inch of his body is missing her. _Some parts more than others_. He chuckles as his hand creeps down his stomach in a yet-slow movement, driven by anticipation.

Images of her are flashing before him- innocent every-day things, ones she has no idea _bewitch_ him.

 _Her hip sticking out as she leans on the war table._

 _When she cocks her head, exposing_ _her neck and inviting him to kiss and nibble._

 _The_ _gentle, feminine curve of her stomach that he likes to imagine round and heavy with their child._

Pushing down his unlaced breeches and smalls, his fingers close around his half-hard length.

He's still unsure what possessed him to pick up that flask he found in the barracks so long ago and keep it in his office. To his relief it was unopened. The oil is clear, doesn't smell and is smooth as he pours some into his palm.

His touch is an unhurried up and down for now as he enjoys this early stage of arousal, the slight prickle of growing excitement. He guides the skin upwards until the head disappears, sighs as he feels himself swelling. More suggestive thoughts are popping up in his head now.

 _A strand of hair wrapped around her index finger as she beckons him closer._

 _Her lips in an_ o _shape, moaning- or perhaps ready to wrap them around him._

 _The stretch of her back as she moves down on his body._

He groans, weighing his shaft in his hand, all flaccidness gone now. Propping an arm under his head, he looks down at himself. Holding his own stiff, thick cock has always filled him with a masculine sort of pride. He grins, reminded of the first time she saw him erect- how her mouth dropped open and her tongue snuck out as she stared. The vision brings on a moan along with other memories of that night.

 _The bounce of those breasts, her nipples rigid under his palms as she rides him_.

 _Her voice, a breathless beg._ "Please."

 _Wet slurping sounds as her body swallows him up over and over._

His breathing has picked up. The oil provides an incomplete but wicked imitation of her slickness, her heat. He grips harder, his pumps becoming more insistent.

Again a change of images. _Still his woman, but there's a different, fuller pair of lips on her peak now, sucking it in deep. Little moans around her plump flesh._

He knows how she reacts to being suckled, has felt her twitch around him.

 _Her fingers digging into slim hips, tracking the dusting of freckles above the swell of round buttocks._

 _A pinched brow. Alistair's enraptured expression._

Cullen groans. His free hand pinches a nipple while he swirls slick around the crown of his cock that's now engorged and almost purple. Maker, he wants her. Wants them _both_.

The shock of admitting to his desire for another man had lasted a brief few seconds. Until he plunged into his kiss, his touch, lost himself right under her keen eyes.

There'd never been a fleeting chance of resisting the voice, the caresses, the warmth. Not with him. Not when she was watching, panting, getting so damp he could _smell_ her.

Desire has him heaving now, flushed and strung tight as a bow.

Before he knows it he's on his knees, thrusting into his hand. Snapping his hips into an invisible body, trying to ignore the frustrating lack of resistance. Imagining her, him, all three of them; a mingling of bodies, voices and scents, sweat, skin and lust. His hand is below the head now, giving fierce, relentless pumps, fuelled by the all-encompassing urge to feel, take, _fuck_.

It starts with a tingle in his toes, his thighs, then his balls.

 _breasts, buttocks, lips, moans_

He clutches at his chest, cries out as his sac draws up. White-hot electricity shoots through him, and semen from him in thick, satisfying spurts.

For a moment all tension leaves his body and thought evades his mind, leaving nothing but blissful clarity.

When he comes to he's light-headed, giddy and sticky.

He rests a short while then sits up, grabs a corner of the sheet and cleans up. Once he's dressed, he removes the linens, takes them downstairs to be washed.

The diligent commander is back, opening all the doors to his office before sitting down at his desk and turning his attention back to his reports.

Every so often he'll look up at nothing, a tiny smile on his face.

 _She'll be back tonight._


End file.
